I have a lot of short stories that I would love to compose into a book and hence its creation. Collins' Collection of Creepy is comprised of several creepypastas, mysteries, violence, supernaturals, a whole lot of bloodshed and gore, and a good frig...
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There's this guy in my class who always scratches his hair. Everyone thinks he has lice...I mean, he must have something right?
He sits next to me in Biology, and he always tries to start up conversations. My friends say that he likes me but I doubt it. Other than the small combos, he is stone cold.
Once, this girl dared to ask him why he kept scratching his hair and no one has seen her since! I was absolutely terrified of what had happened to her but she probably moved without telling us goodbye.
He walks through the halls with his head high, none of the jocks dare to shove him into a locker or push his head in a toilet bowl. Austin Taylor, our previous center for basketball, tried to trip him. Long story short, he ended up with a broken ankle and a shattered wrist. I mean the guy could fight. That's the other thing, no one calls him by his first name as the last girl who did so had a terrible acid accident in the chemistry lab, and guess who was her partner? Yup! The same guy.
Now we call him by his last name, Pearson. Speaking off, he struts inside the classroom, half an hour late but Ms.Vester didn't bother to scold him, rushing him to his seat. It was a group work session today, he had his palms in his oversized black sweater. The Hoody covers his face as it falls way past his eyes, ending at his diamond chin. He was quite handsome, but I'm still wary.
Pulling out of his seat, he finally sat beside me. He looked in my direction before leaning back on the chair that's when it started. His chipped black-nail polished fingers desperately began scratching his hair. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard, quite unsettling.
Yesterday, I bought an anti-itch cream and Tresemmé Shampoo and Conditioner for him. I quickly took out the bagged products, slowly sliding them over to him. He instantly stopped scratching his hair. Looking over at my gift, he quickly took the hood off of his head, glaring at me with cold calculated blue eyes.
"What's this for?" His deep guttural voice vibrated through my body like waves. "W-Well, I assumed...you know what, don't worry." As soon as my hand made contact with the gifts, his hands grabbed mine. Rough calloused hands that we're covered in scabs, probably from picking at his dry palms.
His lips were chapped as well, and looking at the pale skin past his wrists, it was peeling away as well. His fingernails were kept short but they were still split in uncomfortable places. "Thank you." His words had relief flooding through me but if only the danger that I'd place myself in. I wouldn't have felt relief from his thanks.
To be continued...
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